Curse of the Thirteenth Fey

by Jane Yolen

  It was like a mystery tale you solve long before the teller gets to that part of the plot. Banshee’s greatest gift, her voice, became her Curse. Yet what the prince didn’t know then—and probably wouldn’t believe now—was that Fergus loved her anyway, and married her, and somehow they were exiled or left on their own and lived Above the Hill, though I’d never heard that Fergus Cursed Banshee as he lay dying, but perhaps he had. We Shouters tend to forget the bad stuff and dwell in what might be rather than what is. I guess that’s why I wasn’t told about being tied to the land till I was over thirteen. There’s a poet whose book I read, in the D’s, who said something about that. “I dwell in Possibility—” she wrote, almost as if she were fey. And maybe she was.

  So what Grey’s story told me was that we Shouting Fey came because Prince Orybon Cursed his younger brother Fergus and his intended bride, Maeve. And the only other living witness to what had happened after that was this Prince Grey, from the Seelie Court, brought to the Unseelie Court as a hostage prince.

  So was it really a Curse?

  Or a Blessing?

  Or both?

  Whichever, here was me in the middle, puzzling it all out.

  But Grey was still telling the tale, so I stopped thinking and once again listened with care.

  “Then,” Grey said, “Orybon turned on his heel and was gone from them, not wanting to watch their faces—once so full of the heat of their love—melt like candle wax in the greater heat of his Curse.”

  The good thing about the story was that it was clear I knew more about Fergus and Banshee than the two of them did. The bad thing was that they knew much more about the other Curse, the one that sent them into the cave prison, than I did. And either they wouldn’t—or couldn’t—tell me more until I swore the Oath.

  The Oath.

  It always came back to that.

  • 9 •

  TELLING LIES

  So, girl,” Prince Orybon said, his voice like the sound of a lizard scuttling over sand, “will you swear the solemn Oath to me now? Now that you know the whole story?” He was sitting again, and staring so hard at me, I thought his gaze would cut me like a knife.

  I bit my lip. I was far from knowing the whole story. And maybe I’d never know it. All who knew the truth of it—but Orybon and Grey—were long dead or perhaps sailed off to the Western Isles, the land of the Ever Fair, from which no fey ever returns. Still, it was probably all I was ever going to get.

  “What am I to swear to?” I asked, buying time.

  “He does not need to tell you that.” Grey’s hand was once more on his sword, his mind once more on the prince’s wishes.

  “I need to think some more about it.” I wished I knew what time it was, what hour of the clock, whether it was night or day outside. I wished I could find my spindle and the Cloak. Besides, I was hungry, tired, cranky, and frightened. But I was also worrying a lot, considering options, and needed to be away from the two of them for a while.

  “What is there to think about?” Grey asked.

  Before I could answer, Prince Orybon said to Grey, though his eyes never left me, “She is a child, Grey, and has been subjected to much this day. Let her sleep. We have the time.” His smile was not pleasant. “All the time in the world.”

  Cranky himself, Grey turned on him, for once his hand off the sword hilt. “Now she’s a child again? Would you have it only when you wish, how you wish?”

  His cousin shrugged.

  “What you Wished brought us here, you know.”

  Orybon turned toward Grey slowly, the slowness deliberate to show his disdain. He spoke equally slowly, in a kind of drawl. “I know. Do not task me with it again. I was sent here. You chose to come.”

  Grey sighed, an awkward sound, as if he wasn’t used to doing so. “I chose because you were to be king, and I was your right hand. Because I’d been brought over as a child from the other court to be both hostage and friend and thought I was a friend and forgot that I was a hostage. But you did not.” His face looked almost haunted. “You never forgot that.” He hesitated, and I thought he was about to say something he’d never said before so I listened with care. “And because I was loyal. You have to grant me that.”

  Orybon shrugged again, a casual, elegant gesture, as if there were no bones in his shoulders, only something like river water flowing over an unseen bottom. As if the loyalty of his cousin was expected and needn’t be mentioned. And then he mentioned it. “And because you, of all my family, loved me.”

  Grey didn’t contest that, only said, “Your father told you that you would be freed when you truly regretted . . . I thought it would be merely a matter of days. Or a matter of weeks. What does a boy know of time? But of course by then it was too late.”

  Once again the prince shrugged. “I am regretful.”

  “But not truly. Or we would have been recalled already.”

  “How is your father to know . . . ?” I asked, forgetting to just listen.

  “He’d know . . .” Prince Orybon said, but to Grey as if I hadn’t spoken.

  That was when I realized they didn’t actually have any idea how long they’d been imprisoned, that there’d been three fey generations more while they’d been living and arguing with each other in this cave. I wondered if Fergus and Maeve had married Under the Hill and left when she was pregnant with the first child, or if they’d left right away, before Orybon had time to Curse them further. Or if Orybon and Grey had been immediately transported down here after the first Curse.

  I doubted any of the Uncles who’d fallen down a trap to die here had much knowledge of the family tree. Might not have known Banshee’s real name. Might never have heard of Fergus. So how could Orybon and Grey know much?

  Time, I thought, in faerie exile must work the way fey time does with humans. I alone seemed to know that Fergus had been dead for hundreds of years, a long time even for us long-lived fey, but for Orybon, his Cursed brother was still—and improbably—alive.

  I would have laughed in their faces then but quickly decided not to, as I’d no idea how they’d take it. Not without actually knowing (instead of guessing) if Orybon could Curse me in the cave, or if Grey would really slice off my head.

  But this I did know: though these two had outlived all those they’d known in the Unseelie Court, they’d nothing to judge that time against except the generations of cave trolls. How long, I wondered, suddenly, do cave trolls live? How often do they reproduce? Are they also subject to the delayed time in the bespelled cave?

  I tried to read what the two men knew by staring at their faces in the fading light of the hearth, but they were too deep in their old arguments to offer much. And I wasn’t about to enlighten them. Everything I knew that they didn’t helped my cause. So I faked another yawn that quickly turned into a real one.

  After I gave two or three more rather loud yawns, even Prince Orybon noticed and said, “Go to bed, child.” He waved his hand toward the direction of the hearth.

  There was a high bed I hadn’t noticed before by the fire, made up with a coverlet of pink and gold, under a canopy with drapes of the same colors. A young girl’s bed. Not that I’d ever slept in pink and gold. I knew at once it had to be a glamour because the draperies were too fresh and clean looking. Besides, there was no way the prince would have slept in such a girl’s bed. But even knowing, I went over to it, dragging along as if I could barely lift my feet. Suddenly, my right foot struck something that skittered away from me.

  I looked around quickly. The prince and Grey were still deep in their old argument, their backs to me, so I knelt down and felt around. My hand closed about the spindle, still hidden by the Cloak. I must have dropped them here when I Shouted poor Gargle into his grave. I didn’t know if the spindle and Cloak could help me, but I picked them up anyway, thinking that anything I could find of a magick nature ha
d to be of some use. And anyway, once outside again, I would need them both for the christening. If I got there in time.

  Time. It was all about time. I’d no idea how long I’d already been Under the Hill and whether time would go slower or faster above. But I hadn’t burst into a thousand stars yet, so I held the spindle and Cloak close, climbed up onto the pink-and-gold bed, and lay down, planning to eavesdrop on whatever the two fey were saying.

  The beglamoured mattress, whatever it was made of, was soft, and the coverlet warm. I settled between the sheets, the spindle and Cloak still clutched in my arms, meaning to stay awake and listen to the prince and Grey. But before I’d heard another whole round of their arguments, I fell into a real sleep, and all my plans were in vain.

  • • • • • • • •

  At home, morning always dawns pearly, the chorus of birds singing us awake. But in the cave, there was no dawn, no birdsong, and no light when I woke the first time.

  When I woke the second time, it was still dark, silent, clammy, and cold. There was a strange smell around the bed, something sharp and unfamiliar. Something dark and maybe dangerous. But not so dangerous that I could keep myself awake. I hugged the spindle to me, wrapped in the Cloak, and slept again.

  The third time I woke, I sat up. The glamoured bed was gone, and I found myself in the middle of a high nest of moss on the stone floor. The spindle was still invisible, though the edges of the Cloak were now showing, like old leaves in the moss. In the hearth, a fire was only fitfully sputtering, which made me believe that it, at least, was real. I realized at last that the pong I’d been smelling all along came from there. I turned my back on it, afraid it might be something awful—or someone awful—burning.

  But even though I tried to fall asleep again, sleep would not come, and so at last I got out of the bed, though I left the spindle and its cover still in the moss. Stretching, I suddenly wished I’d water and soap for a good washing, and a cleaner dress. I wished I’d a comb to untangle my hair and a brush for my wings, whose feathers were now sadly matted and filthy.

  My wings! I touched the right one tentatively. Though it felt modestly better, I still couldn’t flex it without pain. There’d be no flying that day. I stifled tears in the corners of my eyes with a grimy fist.

  “Awake at last?”

  It was Prince Dry Voice—Orybon, I reminded myself—which made me wonder if he ever slept at all. Perhaps the nest of moss was his own bed, and he’d been forced to sit upright in the chair all night because of his kindness to me.

  Kindness? I gave myself a mental shake. This is the man who has captured me, taken me away from my Family and the Light. My thoughts turned cold. Serves him right. And then I thought, Maybe I haven’t slept all that long, after all.

  “Hungry?”

  Of course I was hungry. But I wasn’t going to fall into that trap. Not yet anyway. Besides, I had other, more pressing needs.

  “Begging your advice, kind prince,” I began, though neither one of us was fooled by my politeness. “I have to . . . I’ve got to . . .”

  Thank goodness I didn’t need to say further. He pointed to a plain white chamber pot and waved me down a dark corridor. He didn’t have to point twice.

  I had a bladder ready to burst. I knew all about bladders. Body is in the B section of the library, a book with diagrams that I found fascinating. Especially the differences between men and women. Even though I have brothers, I knew nothing about their bodies, not being into spying like the twins. Father had showed me the body book and told me that except for the wings and the flight muscles, and a vestigial organ or two (he meant stuff inside that was no longer useful and so we fey no longer had any), our bodies and humans’ bodies are completely the same. “So it will be good instruction for you.”

  So—bladder. Full. Needs emptying. But even more important, this would give me time to explore without Prince Orybon suspecting a thing. I nodded at him, and when he turned away—whether annoyed or bored or embarrassed by my asking, I was never to know—I bent down and gathered up the spindle in the Cloak.

  With enough of a head start, I figured I might be able to escape even if I couldn’t fly.

  Oh, foolish wish, foolish hope. In my heart I knew that. But I also knew I’d be more of a fool if I didn’t at least try.

  So I walked into the dark corridor, trying to look like someone thinking only about her bladder, which wasn’t hard, holding tight to the handle of the chamber pot, which was probably only a be-glamoured rock anyway—and whistling.

  Once thirty steps into the dark, I put the Cloak over my head and shoulders, the spindle into the chamber pot, and raced along the corridor until the blackness confused me. Squatting down, I took the spindle out of the pot, did my bladder business quickly, and was just standing—holding the pot carefully so as not to slosh it over myself. And suddenly there was a hard hand on my shoulder.

  A voice in my ear, Grey’s voice, said, “What have we here, little cousin? You are a long way from the fire. Beware of trolls.”

  Clearly the Cloak had stopped working again.

  I was incensed that he should have been spying on me at such a time. Humiliated, too. Even the twins wouldn’t have done such a thing! Without wondering how he could see me in the dark—even with the Cloak malfunctioning—and without ever thinking through the consequences, I lifted the pot, flung its contents into his face, and then broke the pot over his head for good measure. It was a pot of some kind, and it shattered.

  “Maybe you’ll decide against spying on a lady next time!” I yelled at him.

  He cried out, fell down, and I was away, running blindly down the corridor as fast as I could. I let my left hand trail along the stone wall for guidance, my right hand held out before me, should I run into a stalactite. It seemed a good plan for the moment.

  Suddenly remembering I’d left the spindle on the ground, I hesitated, turned halfway back, stubbed my toe against a piece of rock jutting up from the cave floor, and fell down face forward, with just enough time to remember the other cave word I’d learned in the C book.

  Stalagmite.

  • • • • • • • •

  This time when I awoke, I was back on the mossy bed with a collar around my neck and a leash in the hand of the prince of laughter.

  Prince Orybon was convulsed by my misdeeds. His laugh had no mirth in it, no pity. It felt like a saw against the back of my neck where the collar chafed.

  “Grey was soaking mad when he hauled you back,” he told me the moment my eyes opened and focused. “Soaking wet, too. And his head is still ringing. Most enjoyment I’ve had in . . . in . . .” He stopped laughing and rubbed his nose as if contemplating for the first time how long it might have actually been. “In a long time,” he concluded. “You are quite the accident, little lady.”

  When my eyes finished focusing, I saw he was holding the spindle as if it were some sort of king’s scepter or maybe some kind of fey wand. Without thinking, my hand went to my shoulders. The Cloak was still there, but as he could see me, I guessed it wasn’t working. Still.

  “How many minutes have I . . . have I been out?” I asked. My head was ringing, too.

  “Time is unaccountable here and uncounted,” he answered.

  “I bet.”

  “How much?”

  Without thinking, I said, “An Oath’s worth.”

  “Done,” he said. “You tell me how much time has passed since Grey and I were popped into this prison, and I will not force you to take the Oath.”

  I thought about that. Would his knowing how long he’d actually been in the cave help him and hurt me, or the other way around? Should I let him know that since my Great-grandfather Fergus had married my Great-grandmother Maeve, there had been generations of children, grandchildren, then great-grandchildren? Or should I just keep silent?

  In the en
d, I figured his knowing some of it might soften him up. It just might save me from bursting into a thousand stars. And get me home in time to save the Family.

  All in all, it was a long think. Father would have been proud. And the prince seemed in no hurry for my answer. He’d had quite a while to develop a curious patience, something everyone said I needed to learn.

  I counted to a slow ten, about as long as my patience could last, nodded at Orybon, and took that bet.

  “I am Fergus and Maeve’s great-granddaughter,” I said, as if I were an only child. Not a lie, Father, I thought. Just not all of the truth.

  “Prove it.”

  “She was called Banshee.” I heard him breathe out suddenly, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “Now, what is it you want me to do?”

  I figured that if I didn’t have to take the Oath, I could decide whether or not I could manage the task. And maybe if it was doable, and I did what the prince asked, he would let me go.

  “Is Maeve still alive?” he asked. His voice was tight. But controlled. Very controlled.

  I didn’t answer. Let him make his own guesses.

  “Is that pissant Fergus still living?” he roared.

  I was silent on that account as well.

  “You will take the Oath. now!”

  “I told you how much time has passed; I won the bet. You said—”

  “I lied.”

  I could almost hear his smile. The last bit of the hearth embers crackled as if scolding me for falling for such an old trick. Still, how could I have known he would do such a thing? No one in the Family ever lied about a bet. No true fey would. “But, you said—”

  And then someone else laughed, from the shadows.